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Story as river

Enticed by blurbs, or perhaps a friend's recommendation, Ima Reader
takes a seat in a punt on the shore of a gentle English river. The
flat-bottom boat rocks a little, but she feels safe in the hands of
Heezan Author, who stands ready at the stern, hands on the long pole
used to push the boat. His photo on the back of the book was nice.

Heezan shoves off, and they glide down the river on an easy-going
current. Heezan says, "Note the lovely hues of red and gold in the rose
garden on the far bank." He steers the bow a few degrees toward the
near shore. "And here is where our hero was born, poor tyke, the sad
victim of -- "

Ima peers ahead. "Oh, the hero. I'm so eager to see him."

"Soon enough, soon enough, dear reader. But first, see the
ramshackle one-room schoolhouse where Hero first met Heroine, though
their meeting was a tussle over who got the swing -- "

Ima turns to Heezan. "Excuse me, sir…"

A sigh. "Yes?"

"Pull over to the bank, please."

"But there's so much story to be told."

The boat clunks against a dock and Ima steps out. "Too late." She gently closes the covers, never to return.

OR…

Feeling the pull of a fetching blurb, Ima Reader turns to page one
and drops into a river raft. It races downstream, toward the roar of
water churning over rocks. The nose of the raft rounds a bend and ahead
spray creates a mist above roiling river water and granite boulders.

Sheezan Author, both hands with strangle holds on the rudder at the
rear, shouts, "I don't want to alarm you, but there are crocodiles
between us and the end."

Ima grips a page. She feels her lips stretch in a grin of anticipation when she leans forward and says, "Let 'er rip!"

What if Ima Reader is an agent to whom you've just submitted a
sample, opening her eleventy-eleventh submission that week? Or an
acquisition editor at a publishing firm who wonders why in hell he
agreed to look at your manuscript? Or a bookstore browser deciding on
what to buy for a weekend read (and your book is in that narrow window
of only a few weeks to catch hold and create an audience)? These people
turn to page one looking for one thing.

To be swept away. Effortlessly. After all, the agent's
tired, it's been a hard week, she's looked at dozens of crappy novels,
and it's an act of will to tackle another one. The editor feels a
migraine coming on, and the bookstore browser just had her transmission
go out. Please, capture my mind and imagination and take me away from
all this.

But how does a story do that? The story river readers want to ride races down mountain slopes, hurtling around sharp bends to reveal unexpected events, plunging into
canyons and out again, until a killer waterfall comes into view. Then
it sweeps them over, they plunge and crash into the maelstrom of the
story's climax, and then emerge into calm waters, safe and satisfied.

But how does an author sweep a reader along? The reader's craft
isn't pulled by a rope, it's not propelled by oars or a motor. Instead,
it becomes one with the flow of the river. So what determines the
nature of that flow? For a river, gravity furnishes the power, a
passive power with inevitable pull.

I think screenwriter/story guru Robert McKee
has a terrific way of thinking about what powers a story. Years back, I
attended one of his intensive seminars on screenwriting, and I wish now
I'd been ready to understand everything he had to offer. A brilliant
screenwriter and story thinker, McKee nails what creates the
ever-increasing rush of current in a story. In his book, Story,
he calls it the "gap." While he writes primarily about screenwriting,
he does talk about novels, and his insights are all about story, no
matter what the form. Here's a diagram from his book that illustrates
the gap.

A character has an object of desire. That could be a treasure, a job, a person, catching a killer, anything. He takes action -- risky action --
to get it…but he doesn't succeed because of inner, personal, or
external conflict. A gap opens between the character and his goal.

But he still wants what he wants. So he takes a second action, one
that requires a greater risk. But again he is frustrated, and must try
again. McKee says each step should involve more risk, there should be
more for the character to lose. Causes of the gap could even be things
that seem pleasant, even the achievement of a similar goal…but still
there's that need, that frustration.

So look at your story, especially the opening. Is your reader in a
boat you pole down a lazy river, talking amiably about scenery and
backstory? Or is he about to run the rapids only seconds after boarding?

The rapids don't, of course, have to be physical, as if in an
adventure. Those rapids could be caused by internal conflict. They can
be emotional, or interpersonal, or…hey, whatever your imagination
desires.

But your river must MOVE! When I write scenes and chapters in my
novel in progress, I don't apply McKee's gap technique in advance,
before writing. But my sense of that underlying mechanism is becoming
more and more ingrained in me, more of the rudder that steers my
characters deeper and deeper into complications. At least on good days
it does.

And I think "the gap" can be a terrific diagnostic tool. If your
story feels lazy, or sags somewhere along the line, looking at what is
(and isn't) happening -- does the character desire
something, does she strive for it, is she blocked and forced to try
again, to try something new? Use "the gap" to help you restore
irresistible pull to the river of your story.

Best,

RR

Free edit in exchange for posting permission. You send
a sample that you have questions about and of which you'd like an edit.
I won't post it without your permission.

Tip Jar: visitors have asked for a way to lay a dime or two on me and, I'll confess, it would be helpful. So if you want to chip in, click here. And many thanks.

Comments

Story as river

Enticed by blurbs, or perhaps a friend's recommendation, Ima Reader
takes a seat in a punt on the shore of a gentle English river. The
flat-bottom boat rocks a little, but she feels safe in the hands of
Heezan Author, who stands ready at the stern, hands on the long pole
used to push the boat. His photo on the back of the book was nice.

Heezan shoves off, and they glide down the river on an easy-going
current. Heezan says, "Note the lovely hues of red and gold in the rose
garden on the far bank." He steers the bow a few degrees toward the
near shore. "And here is where our hero was born, poor tyke, the sad
victim of -- "

Ima peers ahead. "Oh, the hero. I'm so eager to see him."

"Soon enough, soon enough, dear reader. But first, see the
ramshackle one-room schoolhouse where Hero first met Heroine, though
their meeting was a tussle over who got the swing -- "

Ima turns to Heezan. "Excuse me, sir…"

A sigh. "Yes?"

"Pull over to the bank, please."

"But there's so much story to be told."

The boat clunks against a dock and Ima steps out. "Too late." She gently closes the covers, never to return.

OR…

Feeling the pull of a fetching blurb, Ima Reader turns to page one
and drops into a river raft. It races downstream, toward the roar of
water churning over rocks. The nose of the raft rounds a bend and ahead
spray creates a mist above roiling river water and granite boulders.

Sheezan Author, both hands with strangle holds on the rudder at the
rear, shouts, "I don't want to alarm you, but there are crocodiles
between us and the end."

Ima grips a page. She feels her lips stretch in a grin of anticipation when she leans forward and says, "Let 'er rip!"

What if Ima Reader is an agent to whom you've just submitted a
sample, opening her eleventy-eleventh submission that week? Or an
acquisition editor at a publishing firm who wonders why in hell he
agreed to look at your manuscript? Or a bookstore browser deciding on
what to buy for a weekend read (and your book is in that narrow window
of only a few weeks to catch hold and create an audience)? These people
turn to page one looking for one thing.

To be swept away. Effortlessly. After all, the agent's
tired, it's been a hard week, she's looked at dozens of crappy novels,
and it's an act of will to tackle another one. The editor feels a
migraine coming on, and the bookstore browser just had her transmission
go out. Please, capture my mind and imagination and take me away from
all this.

But how does a story do that? The story river readers want to ride races down mountain slopes, hurtling around sharp bends to reveal unexpected events, plunging into
canyons and out again, until a killer waterfall comes into view. Then
it sweeps them over, they plunge and crash into the maelstrom of the
story's climax, and then emerge into calm waters, safe and satisfied.

But how does an author sweep a reader along? The reader's craft
isn't pulled by a rope, it's not propelled by oars or a motor. Instead,
it becomes one with the flow of the river. So what determines the
nature of that flow? For a river, gravity furnishes the power, a
passive power with inevitable pull.

I think screenwriter/story guru Robert McKee
has a terrific way of thinking about what powers a story. Years back, I
attended one of his intensive seminars on screenwriting, and I wish now
I'd been ready to understand everything he had to offer. A brilliant
screenwriter and story thinker, McKee nails what creates the
ever-increasing rush of current in a story. In his book, Story,
he calls it the "gap." While he writes primarily about screenwriting,
he does talk about novels, and his insights are all about story, no
matter what the form. Here's a diagram from his book that illustrates
the gap.

A character has an object of desire. That could be a treasure, a job, a person, catching a killer, anything. He takes action -- risky action --
to get it…but he doesn't succeed because of inner, personal, or
external conflict. A gap opens between the character and his goal.

But he still wants what he wants. So he takes a second action, one
that requires a greater risk. But again he is frustrated, and must try
again. McKee says each step should involve more risk, there should be
more for the character to lose. Causes of the gap could even be things
that seem pleasant, even the achievement of a similar goal…but still
there's that need, that frustration.

So look at your story, especially the opening. Is your reader in a
boat you pole down a lazy river, talking amiably about scenery and
backstory? Or is he about to run the rapids only seconds after boarding?

The rapids don't, of course, have to be physical, as if in an
adventure. Those rapids could be caused by internal conflict. They can
be emotional, or interpersonal, or…hey, whatever your imagination
desires.

But your river must MOVE! When I write scenes and chapters in my
novel in progress, I don't apply McKee's gap technique in advance,
before writing. But my sense of that underlying mechanism is becoming
more and more ingrained in me, more of the rudder that steers my
characters deeper and deeper into complications. At least on good days
it does.

And I think "the gap" can be a terrific diagnostic tool. If your
story feels lazy, or sags somewhere along the line, looking at what is
(and isn't) happening -- does the character desire
something, does she strive for it, is she blocked and forced to try
again, to try something new? Use "the gap" to help you restore
irresistible pull to the river of your story.

Best,

RR

Free edit in exchange for posting permission. You send
a sample that you have questions about and of which you'd like an edit.
I won't post it without your permission.

Tip Jar: visitors have asked for a way to lay a dime or two on me and, I'll confess, it would be helpful. So if you want to chip in, click here. And many thanks.